


We Have Each Other Now

by Deannachu



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: But it's a cute fic, F/M, Girl next door, Mention of abuse, So it's brief, boy next door
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 01:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2006547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deannachu/pseuds/Deannachu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lindsay's home life consists of a perfection-obsessed mother and a virtually nonexistent father, and she wishes nothing more than for her mother to realize that she is not a disappointment if she is less than perfect, choosing to use video games and novels as means of escape. Michael Jones comes from a motherless, abusive home life and is counting down the days until graduation, using his rooftop to escape the problems inside his house. When Lindsay joins Michael one night in his escape, the two realize that the escape that they were both longing for could be found in each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Have Each Other Now

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys enjoy! I read a boy/girl next door kind of book and I got inspired to write this so I hope you guys like it. :D

It was difficult being an only child sometimes, having all this pressure thrust upon you to be perfect at everything. I was expected to have perfect grades, perfect work ethic, perfect appearance... everything had to be perfect or my parents, mostly my mother, would freak the fuck out. If I came home with news of anything less than an A she would just sigh at me and shake her head, and wonder aloud why she couldn't have one of those perfect daughters who could score As on everything they did. She would wonder where she went wrong and how she failed as a parent because I didn't score top of my class. 

It used to bother me, sure, when I was in middle and junior high school. I would nervously wring my hands on the bus ride home, worried about showing my parents the B+ paper I had in my backpack even though I spent two weeks doing extensive working on it, or I would be worried about telling them about the 89.5 I scored on a science test, even though the teacher herself said it would be the hardest one of the year and the grades wouldn't be as great as they had been that semester. I would get the same look, the same thoughts from my mother, and when I looked to my father for help, well, he would be of absolutely none. He would sit in the sitting room, reading a paper or watching TV. As I got older he didn't care as much as my mother about grades or perfection but he did absolutely nothing to stop her tirade when it came to me. 

I didn't have many friends at school because of my endless quest to be perfect. I was president of many clubs, on track to be valedictorian, and compared to many girls in my high school, I had a really nice appearance. Thanks to braces, my teeth were white and straight. "Only trashy girls have uneven teeth," my mother once said on our way to one of my many orthodontist appointments. I simply shrugged and stared out the window, giving her no indication that I had heard what she said. Even though I did. 

My hair was long and a natural red color, a trait I inherited from my mother. I never got pimples, even when I was on my period, and because of my strict 'no soda' rule implemented by my parents when I was younger, my skin was smooth and basically free of redness or irritation. I was hydrated, healthy, and pretty. "Every guy's dream," my friend Barbara commented often when I brought up the topic. I would simply roll my eyes and take a sip of my tea, brushing off the notion that any guy would want to date a high strung girl like me. "Oh Lindsay," she would say, "you're not high strung. Your  _parents_ are high strung."

"That may be true, but if I'm practically not the same way they just... they're unbearable," I would reply, frustration building up inside me. "You should have seen the other day when I told my mother I didn't get an A+ on that stupid History presentation; I thought she was going to have a stroke."

"What did your dad say?" she would ask and I would sigh and shake my head.

"Nothing. The only words he says to me on a daily basis are 'good morning Lindsay' and 'goodnight Lindsay,'" I respond bitterly. It bothered me that he never commented on my life, that he went to work, came home, ate dinner, and then retired to the TV without even so much as asking me how my day went or what I did at school. "Can we change the topic? This is kind of stressing me out."

"Sure, Linds," Barb would respond with a smile.

And then we would talk about the guy that she liked or she would ask me about a new video game I bought the night before and the conversation would be much lighter, happier. Then I would go home and have to face my mother's constant belittling, my father's evasive actions, and I would retreat to my room after dinner to do what homework I had and then play games until I got tired. 

There were some nights, though, that movement out of the window next to my bed would catch my eye. I would look over after pausing my game and notice Michael Jones, a boy who was in my grade, sitting on the roof outside of his own window, leaning back and looking up at the stars. He would be in his usual pajamas - a well worn t-shirt and lounge pants - and he would always be wearing a look that could be described as sad or annoyed, maybe a combination of both. I never joined him, seeing as we had never spoken two words to each other in the five years we've lived next door. He ran with a different crowd at school than I did (although I can hardly consider Barbara, Arryn, and Meg a 'crowd' seeing as the actual 'nerds' of the school avoided me because  _they_ thought I was too high strung) so we never talked. We shared two classes, including History, but sitting on opposite sides of the room didn't leave much opportunity for conversation.  _  
_

I never joined him. Not when he sat outside wiping tears from his eyes, not when he brought out a pillow with him and let out a horrific muffled scream into it, and not when, one nice, windy night, he sat outside and talked. Just talked. To who, I will never find out. But with my window open I sat down right beside it on my floor and leaned my head back, letting his words travel with the wind into my bedroom. They were words of sorrow, of pain, of living with an abusive father and of wishing that these few months until graduation would go by much faster because then he could leave. He would be free from the toxic house he lived in.

"Me too," I would whisper after the words quit flowing, even though I knew he couldn't hear me. "Me too."

* * *

 

When I got home from school, I was greeted with my mother's normal, "Lindsay, how did you do on the math exam? Perfect, I assume?" to which I would reply, "yes, mother," even if I didn't make a perfect score because I was tired of her treating me like I was the filth on the bottom of her shoe when I didn't. She would come over and assess my hair and makeup from the day, frowning and making comments here and there about where I should have touched it up or brushed my hair because  _god forbid I sweat during the day or my hair does its own thing._

_Smile and nod, Lindsay, smile and nod._

I went up to my room and threw my bag down on my bed and followed it, falling onto my stomach with a muffle 'oomf.' My room was pretty large compared to most; my queen sized bed was in the middle with night stands on either side holding a lamp and various items in its drawers. There was one wall that was nothing but bookshelves and they were filled with my favorite books and books I had to read for class that I liked; they also held my small collection of games as well. My closet was full of clothes, but mostly clothes I bought myself (the clothing my mother bought me was in the back of the closet, right where it should be.) 

I had personal little knick knacks here and there, posters on the walls of favorite bands or gaming personalities, and just a random assortment of  _stuff._

I turned my head to look out the window and blinked a few times, the sunlight shining  _just right_ to blind my fucking eyes. I groaned as I forced myself up, having to take out my books and get started on my homework before dinner, hopefully finishing it in time to have a chance to get back to playing the game I bought a few days ago. I had opened up my math book and taken out a clean sheet of paper, steadily working Calculus problems and getting lost in my own mind, when movement out of the corner of my eye caused me to look up. 

Michael's room, which I had perfect viewpoint into when his curtains were opened, suddenly lit up as Michael walked into it and threw his bag down on his bed, looking tired and worn out. He mimicked my position exactly as when I first came into my own bedroom and I smiled to myself at how he looked laying on his stomach. All of a sudden his father burst into his room and began to yell at him, pushing things around and getting more and more into his face. He stood up and yelled back, throwing his hands around and backing away when his father got too close. 

I didn't want to be caught staring so I forced myself to look back at my book, although motivation to finish these few problems was long gone. I could see the movement from my peripheral vision but I didn't dare look up again. Soon the movement stopped and I cautiously snuck a glance at the window. Michael was sitting on his bed with his face in his heads, his shoulders shaking (although from anger or crying, it was hard to tell.) My heart ached and I longed to be able to reach out and tell him that I was here for him, that I would be here when he felt small, when he felt like he didn't matter. 

Instead I answered my mother's shouts to come down, that dinner was ready, and with one last glance out the window I reluctantly left my room.

* * *

 

I returned to my room and resisted the urge to slam the door. Dinner was anything but enjoyable. When I reached for my second helping of my favorite dish, my mother's homemade macaroni and cheese, my mother tsked under her breath. I paused, hand on the spoon, ready to scoop myself another helping, and asked her what was the matter. She smiled at me, a very fake smile, and told me that maybe I shouldn't have that second helping because she noticed that my jeans were getting a little tighter around my waist, that my stomach was a little more profound than it was a few months ago. She suggested that I skip dessert and take a walk, or a light jog instead. 

My own mother subtly called me fat. I simply excused myself from the table and took my empty to the sink and set it there, retreating to the sanctity of my bedroom. I heard my mother ask my father what my problem was, why I was reacting so childishly to her  _helpful_ suggestion. As usual there was only a grunt response from him. I fought back tears when I made it to my room, wanting to just forget about my family and forget about being perfect. It was difficult to keep up the perfect charade all the damn time. I took a few calming breaths and walked into the bathroom, bringing my pajamas with me. I stared at myself in the mirror for a moment before I broke out the face wash, scrubbing all the damn makeup off of my face so I was left with my natural skin, a little redness appearing because of the wash. My eyes weren't as striking without eye makeup, but they were _me._ They were what my mother couldn't stand to look at. I ran a brush through my hair and threw it up in a sloppy pony tail, reveling in the wisps of hair that refused to be contained. I slipped on my plain blue tank top and black lounge pants and took one last look in the mirror.

A plain faced girl with slightly red-tinged skin, green eyes, and sloppy hair stared back at me.  _This is who I want to be_ , I thought.  _This is who my mother can't stand. Too bad the person she can't stand is her own fucking daughter._

I walked out of the bathroom and threw my dirty clothes in the hamper, settling down on my bed in front of my TV. I booted up my Xbox and continued from my save point in my game, losing myself in the virtual world. I yelled quietly when I died and somewhat loudly when I triumphed over a certain spot. I managed to get to almost the very end before I started yawning, feeling fatigue slowly creeping on me. I got to a save point and ended the game, shutting down my console and turning off the overhead light. I flipped on the two lamps beside my bed and grabbed the book I had been reading off the table, settling into my soft bed to read until my eyes would no longer stay opened.

I had gotten a little more than halfway through the novel, immersed in the story line and the characters. My window was open to let the Spring breeze in, filling my room with the sounds of cicadas and leaves rustling together, and then I heard it. The audible sound of a sliding window. I hesitantly got out from under the covers and took a look out of my window. Michael was sitting in his normal spot, head leaned back against the window, mumbling to himself while looking at the stars. I paused, wanting so much to go outside and join him. Our roofs were close enough that I could shimmy over to his and sit near him.  _What if he wants to be alone?_

He put his head in his hands just then, shoulders shaking like they did earlier, and all concern about personal space flew out the window. I opened my own a little wider and stepped out onto my roof. It was a clear night, the breeze a little cool but the spring heat sticking around nonetheless. He lifted his head at the noise, his unbelievably sad eyes locking on my own. Neither of us spoke for what seemed like minutes. I had settled down against my own window and mimicked his position, but continued to look at him and he at me. 

Finally he opened his mouth. "You're Lindsay. Lindsay Tuggey."

I nodded. "And you're Michael Jones."

"I wish I wasn't," he responded, wiping away his tears. "I wish I had been born into another family all the time, because my own fucking sucks." I didn't respond, biting my lip. "I know you see me. I know you see  _him._ You may think you're being sneaky by looking away before we can see you through your window but you're not. I always know when you're looking at me."

I blushed. "I didn't... I didn't mean to, your window was open and I... my attention span..."

"It's okay. I would be the same why if our situations were reversed. If you had the shitty family and I had the normal one."

"My family is far from normal," I replied, looking down at my bare feet. My toes were polished and neatly clipped, although I noticed a small chip on one of the nails. "Unless you count a mother who believes you to be a disappointment if you are anything less than perfect and a father who doesn't even acknowledge you're there ninety-nine percent of the time 'normal.'"

"I would rather have that, I think," he said after a little while. "Unless you want a mother who's no longer living and a father who drinks his sorrows away and takes his drunken anger out on his only son."  I looked up at him after he said that and saw the sadness fill his face, how his fists clenched into his sides. My heart ached for him. 

"I'm sure you know what people say about me at school, about how I'm so high strung and 'perfect,'" I said bitterly. "I don't want to be. My mother would have a stroke if I went to school looking like I do now. She expects me to wear makeup everyday, have my hair styled perfectly, no wrinkles in my clothing, perfect grades, perfect posture, perfect friends, perfect attitude..." I scoffed, wishing I had something breakable to throw. "And when I'm not perfect? When I forget to put on makeup or I make less than an A on anything I do? I have to listen to her act like I'm not in the room, asking herself where she went wrong with raising me, why I can't be like her fucking coworker's daughter who makes perfect grades on everything and who never falters  _once._ She acts like I'm a disappointment. I overheard her once asking my dad why they couldn't have had a smarter, prettier daughter." I was crying at this point, everything I had been wanting to say finally out on the table, and I said it all to Michael. Not Barbara. Not Arryn. Not even Meg.  _Michael,_ my neighbor who I had never spoken to before tonight. 

"I've seen you crying sometimes," he mumbles quietly, still looking at me. "You'll go to your room and almost slam the door, but you don't. Then you'll rub at your eyes and then your whole face, like you're trying to erase something. I've noticed that when you change into your pajamas, and this is going to sound weird, that you become a completely different person. You're more lively, your smiles are more genuine. The way you light up when you play Xbox absolutely kills me, because, and don't take this the wrong way, I think you're more beautiful like you are now than you ever could be with makeup or nice clothes or perfect hair." 

"I'm surprised that you don't throw things," I told him, after the initial shock of  _Michael notices me?_ had worn off. "I've seen you yell, but after an episode with your dad you just calmly sit down on your bed and stare at the wall or at your phone until you put your head in your hands and you shoulders shake. I've never seen you break or throw anything out of anger towards your dad."

He chuckled bitterly. "That's his job, not mine. My mom never liked violence, even up until she died. Cancer," he said when I gave him a curious look. "I swore to myself that no matter how mad I got, no matter how badly I wanted to punch or kick or throw something, I would sit down, count to twenty, and remember my mom." His eyes softened significantly when he talked about her and I could tell he really loved her. My eyes burned with more tears. I wish my own mother was like his. 

"Your mom sounded like she was a great person," I said softly, smiling through my tears. He nodded, smiling back. 

"She was. She was the absolute best." His fondness for her shone through his voice, lighting up his face. He scooted over slightly and patted the spot next to him, causing me to gasp in surprise. I didn't know if he would want me to sit by him since, after all, we were still pretty much strangers. "You're so far away, I won't bite you know."

I stood up slightly and made my way to his roof, only slipping once but regaining my balance soon after. I sat down a respectable distance from him, surprised at how my breath caught in my throat when he smiled at me. I could see his brown eyes up close, and take note of his facial features. His smile was dazzling, a much better look for him than the sad one I always seem to catch him with. I told him so and he just shook his head at me. "I can't help it if I'm sad all the time. It's not like I've got friends I can tell all this to."

"But you do have friends-"

"But they wouldn't understand what I was going through," he interrupted. "They haven't been through a terrible home situation like we have."  _We,_ my heart jumped at the word. "Ray is my best friend but... there are some things I couldn't tell him." 

"I've got Barbara, and I tell her things, but I couldn't... I wouldn't know how to go in depth with her like this, you know?" He nodded. "It's really relieving to know that I've got all of this off my chest, that it's finally out in the open. I guess I've been looking for a way to get it out for a very long time, I just hadn't found the right outlet yet." 

"Well," he said, scooting closer to me. A breeze blew just then, blowing his unruly curls in front of his eyes. He continued to smile at me while brushing them away absentmindedly. "You've got me now to talk to. Our late night roof chats. They can be our thing. When we just can't fucking stand to be inside, which lately seems to be everyday for me, we can meet up here on our roofs and talk about it; or not talk at all, if you want. It's been very clear and starry the past few nights, and looking up at the stars calms me down sometimes." 

"They can have a calming affect," I agreed. He was close enough for me to smell him, catching a whiff of fabric softener and just his natural Michael smell. "It's been hard to watch you in pain for a while, because I would see you outside every night. Some nights you would just sit here, others you would be talking, and others you would be upset. I would sit on the other side of my window by the floor and listen when you would talk," I admitted. His eyebrows raised in surprise but he wasn't annoyed with me listening in. 

"How much did you hear?" 

"All of it," I said weakly. "But I never interrupted because I know what it feels like to need personal space and time to yourself to just  _talk_  if you need to." I bit my lip and hesitated. "If I may be so blunt here, who was it you were talking to?"

He turned away from me and looked at the stars, a sad smile forming on his face. "My mom." My lips formed an 'O' but I stayed silent, letting him continue. "Talking to her calms me down more than anything and it feels like she's listening, even though she can't respond herself." 

"I'm sorry about your mom," I said quietly. He looked at me again and shrugged. 

"Thanks, Lindsay." 

We said nothing for a while, just staring up at the stars and leaning against the house. Sometime in between I had moved right next to Michael so that our legs touched, and leaned my head on his shoulder. I was tired, exhausted really, but I didn't want to go inside yet. I vulnerable and emotional and there was something raw about it all. I could be myself around Michael, I could tell him everything and he would  _understand._

He leaned his head on top of my own and wrapped an arm around my shoulders and my heart beat a million miles an hour, the butterflies in my stomachs doing somersaults. I had only talked to him for a couple of hours but I was drawn to him. We were both broken, unable to discuss our problems with anyone else until tonight, and I liked him. I knew I liked him. The only other boy I had ever liked got scared away by my mother. He came over to pick me up for a date and my mother took one look at him and deemed him unworthy for me and demanded he leave at once. 

I was humiliated and angry, though she didn't seem to care. He never spoke to me again after that.

I must have dozed off because I was being shaken awake, Michael's voice mumbling in my ear that I should probably go to bed and not fall asleep on his rooftop. I rubbed my eyes and yawned, smacking my lips together. He smiled at me and shook his head, amused. "How long was I asleep?"

"Just for a few minutes, but it didn't take you long to doze. You should probably go to bed so your mom doesn't find you up here," he said, knocking me slightly. I giggled and nodded.

"Yeah, you're right." I stood up slightly and surprised him by pulling him into a hug, squeezing him tightly. "Thank you for listening to me." He chuckled against my shoulder and wrapped his arms around me, holding me tightly. 

"You're more than welcome, and I should be thanking  _you_ because this is the happiest I've been in days." My heart thudded at his words and I couldn't help the smile that crept on my face. 

I made the short (and slightly wobbly) journey back to my own window without falling and turned around to glance at Michael one last time before I went inside. He was already back in his room but leaning out the window, I guess making sure I got back in okay. He shot me one of those dazzling Michael smiles before mouthing 'goodnight' at me and retreating to his bed. I smiled to myself and re-entered my bedroom, turning off the lamps and crawling into bed, watching as his lights went out. 

My last thoughts before I finally fell asleep were of a boy and a girl sitting on a rooftop, gazing at the stars. 


End file.
